


Lay That Heavy Trick On Me

by DangerousCommieSubversive



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Fake Marriage, Heist, M/M, References to David Bowie, Theft, Undercover Missions, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-05-01 05:13:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5193554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DangerousCommieSubversive/pseuds/DangerousCommieSubversive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Guardians take a job robbing an expensive resort, and their floorplans indicate that the best access point to get to where they need to be is in the honeymoon suite. Which means that two of them need to play like they're married.</p><p>Peter's not quite sure why <em>he</em> has to be one of the lucky newlyweds. Drax doesn't understand subterfuge. Gamora just keeps laughing at them and it's terrible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lay That Heavy Trick On Me

**Author's Note:**

> Written in trade for my friend Dagmar, whose favorite trope is fake married and who loves aliens.
> 
> Contains jokes about David Bowie, references to a ton of different science fiction shows, novels, and movies, some vague D/s implications, and a lot of dumb jokes.
> 
> There's also definitely some alien junk situations in here. Fair warning.

It takes a _long_ time to explain.

“I do not understand.”

“We need to pretend to be married.”

Drax says, “You already said that. _Why_ do we need to pretend to be married?”

 _Because Gamora said no, sleeping with me twice was plenty for her and nobody at this resort place would ever believe that someone like her would want someone like me around as “man candy.”_ “Because Gamora's an expert infiltrator and needs to be somewhere else, Rocket and Groot attract too much attention, and we need to have _some_ way to get into the honeymoon suite without raising eyebrows.”

“What purpose does the honeymoon suite serve? You have not bothered to explain that part.”

Peter scratches at the back of his head. “It—you know, I was honestly sort of confused by Gamora's explanation. I shoot guns, I don't plan so much. Apparently it's uniquely positioned to access the ventilation system? Which we need so we can fill the hotel with knockout gas. Or...something.”

“And a honeymoon. Explain what a honeymoon is. Is the honey eaten? Which moon is involved?”

“Uh...it's an expression. A metaphor. It's...” Peter takes a deep breath. “It's the period right after a wedding, you know, when you've got two people and they're in love and they have a lot of sex.”

Drax considers this for a moment.

_Please don't make me explain what sex is. Drax was married once. He had kids. He_ _**has** _ _to know. Right?_

“I understand.”

Peter relaxes. He relaxes so hard that he almost falls over.

“But you are asking me to lie.”

“...yes. Yes, I am.”

“Lying is for the craven and the weak. Why are we doing it?”

Peter has to work hard to keep his jaw from dropping. “Drax, have you _seen_ us? We—uh. I. _I_ am craven and weak, and lying suits me just fine.”

Another moment of slow, serious consideration, and then Drax says, “I do not like to lie. But if it is necessary that we pretend to be a wedded couple...”

“It is. It's necessary.” _Or Gamora is fucking with me._

Drax claps him on the shoulder. He almost falls over. “Then we are wed.”

* * *

 

“I'll be doing the primary infiltrating.” Gamora leans back in her chair with her feet on the table—an ordinary gesture until you remember how trustless and guarded most of her life has been. “I have a connection within the staff of Plava Laguna Resort. She'll get me into the back ways. I'll be posing as a security auditor.”

Rocket snorts. “A 'connection'? You kill anyone she knows?”

Gamora raises an eyebrow at him. “We dated.”

Peter chokes on his drink.

She ignores him and cuts Rocket's reply off with, “Rocket. Groot. You're our primary exit strategy. I'll be embedding you in the room service staff. Quill, Drax—”

Peter recovers from his choking fit. Drax sits up a bit straighter, if that's possible.

“You'll be staying in the honeymoon suite, as we discussed, ready to provide me access to the ventilation system. Before and _during_ that, you're there to distract the resort staff while I work.”

Groot says, puzzled, “I am Groot.” By now he's grown enough to walk on his own, but he's still only a few inches taller than Rocket, and he has to sit in a booster seat like Rocket's to see over the table.

“Yeah, what's this about a honeymoon suite?” Rocket's eyeing Peter and Drax sidelong. “There something you two oughtta be telling us?”

“Peter Quill and I are wed for the duration of this work.” Drax says it like it's not weird at all. “I do not like to lie, but he says it is necessary.”

Rocket starts to cackle, delighted.

“I need you to be _as distracting as possible._ ” Gamora swings her feet off the table with a bump. “Quill, I need _you_ spoiled and bratty and rich.”

“I have really fun ideas. There are drawings I can show you.”

“That worries me. And Drax, you're going to need to wear a shirt.”

Drax frowns. “Why? _Looking_ dangerous is a vital step in _being_ dangerous.”

“That's the problem. We need you to _not_ look dangerous. Quill's going to be as bratty and self-centered as possible, which I'm sure won't be hard for him—”

“Hey!”

“—and I need _you_ to look like someone who'd _appeal_ to someone bratty and self-centered. If you leave your shirt off you just look intimidating.”

“I am supposed to look intimidating. I am the Destroyer.”

Gamora buries her face in her hands. “Please wear a shirt for the mission, Drax. It's only for a few days. And you can take it off in private.”

Drax hesitates, then leans forward and pats her on the shoulder. “I will do so if you need me to, my friend.”

She sighs with relief. “Good. Peter, what's your...idea? I want a chance to look it over _before_ you get us all killed.”

* * *

 

Peter had sat hunched over his tiny desk with his music turned up for almost two hours. He didn't normally draw much, but then he _also_ didn't normally get to come up with a _character_ for himself. He was going to be _undercover._ It was going to be awesome.

The important thing was, he needed to be _alien._ But _to_ aliens. What could he look like that they wouldn't know? What would _work_ for a look?

And the next song started and he _knew._

* * *

 

Peter slaps his design down on the table.

Everyone leans forward to look.

Rocket says, slowly, “What the _fuck_ is that.”

“That's me!”

Gamora squints. “Is this _based_ on something?”

“Yep. Terran legend.” Peter laces his hands behind his head, grinning. “That's who I'm going to be. Ziggy Stardust, prince of the Spartax.”

Her eyebrow shoots up. “Spartax?”

“That's not part of the legend. I made that part up.”

“Well, it _looks_ like what we're going for...although I don't know how you're going to get all this makeup. Or who's going to put it on you.”

Peter's face falls. “You mean you can't...?”

 _Everyone_ turns to stare at him as she says, “I've never owned makeup in my life. Why would I have makeup?”

“Then how do you get your eyelashes to do that...” he gestures vaguely, “that thing? That awesome thing that they do?”

“Nothing. They look like that all the time.”

“I am Groot!”

Rocket's jaw drops. “What the fuck does _that_ mean, 'I know how to do it'?”

* * *

 

Gamora whips around and glares. “Peter, _why_ are you following me?”

Peter jumps back a couple of steps. “I'm watching how you walk.”

“Why?”

“So I can copy you.”

“I—you— _why?_ ”

He grins weakly. “Well, you always look like you're _better_ than everyone. So I figured that if I wanted to look spoiled and arrogant I'd copy you.”

She stares at him for a moment, unamused, and then says, “Show me.”

He does his best Gamora walk.

She groans. “Well, if you do it like _that,_ you'll just look like your _pants_ are too tight. Here, no—” she grabs him. “Hips like _this._ Feet like _this._ And we're going to need to do something about your expressions, right now you look like a stray who needs a home.”

* * *

 

Before they get to Plava Laguna for the heist of the century, they make a stop at a trading outpost. Gamora disappears to get clothes for the job, leaving Peter to replenish the ship's supplies and pick up the baffling assortment of things on the shopping list Rocket had written up for Groot. The fertilizer made sense, sure, but what did he need all these _seeds_ for?

* * *

 

The seeds make sense the next morning, when they're getting ready for the job.

First there's the matter of getting dressed. Gamora looks very sharp in her auditor's uniform, her hair pulled back into a tight braid, the logo of the security company catching the light on her chest. Rocket and Groot look vaguely absurd in their room service uniforms, but in a way that Gamora tells them is apparently fitting, since the resort's staff are supposed to be as decorative as its scenery. Drax looks incongruous in the silk shirt and tasteful jewelry that Gamora obtained for him, but as soon as he relaxes on the bench against the wall everything pulls together, and suddenly he _does_ look like he could conceivably be some rich brat's eye candy.

Gamora hands an armload of clothes to Peter. “Put these on.”

“I can still wear my coat with this outfit, right?”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, Peter, you can still wear your coat with this outfit. I picked it out specifically to allow you your security blanket since you can't take your music.”

“Awesome.” He ducks into the other room.

Gamora starts counting backwards. “Ten...nine...eight...”

“Gamora, I look like a really expensive prostitute.”

“And liftoff.” She raises her voice to answer him. “Yes, Peter, that's the point. If you want to pretend to be royalty then you're going to have to dress like royalty.”

“I. Uh.”

“Are you going to argue with me?”

“I'll just...finish getting dressed.”

“Do not worry, Quill.” Drax plucks irritably at the collar of his shirt, which isn't even closed. “There is no shame in prostitution. They are mercenaries just as we.” His fiddling pops off the top button completely.

Rocket collapses in the corner, laughing.

Gamora pauses for a moment, looking thoughtful, and then says, “You know, Drax, I've been meaning to ask. Where did you get the idea that _I_ was a whore?”

Drax blinks. “The other men in the Kyln referred to you as such. I assumed that it was accurate. It is not an uncommon job.”

“It's not true. They were trying to insult me.”

“What would it gain them to suggest that you are gainfully employed?”

She stares at him for a moment, then shrugs. “Well, just...I'm not. Don't call me that again.”

“As you wish, my friend.”

After another couple of minutes, Peter emerges from the other room and says, “I feel really naked.”

Groot hops to his feet. “I am Groot!”

“He says siddown.”

Peter sits down cross-legged on the floor, making a face as he tries to find a comfortable position in the skin-tight pants Gamora gave him, and waits, watching Groot. The seeds he bought are already laid out on a small stool, which has Peter's design pinned to it.

“I am Groot.” Groot smiles at him.

He picks up a handful of seeds and eats them.

And a flower blooms in his hand.

It shoots up, buds, and blossoms in what seems like seconds, a vivid blood red. Two more flowers follow it, three. And then he crushes them, and his other hand grows moss, and he says, gently, “I am Groot,” and dips the mossy hand in the mess of broken flowers. Reaches for Peter.

Peter shuts his eyes, and damp, mossy fingers stroke down his forehead, tracing and then filling in a lightning bolt that Peter had memorized when he was young, had painted on himself for Halloween a couple of years before he went to space. When he stops feeling anything but pigment drying on his skin, he opens his eyes, to see Groot wiping his hand clean on a towel and then blooming another flower, this one bright blue.

Red and blue and black on the lightning bolt. Black and purple on his eyes. A stain of sweet, dark purple berry juice on his lips. A tracery of gold and silver across his exposed collarbones and down into the open collar of his shirt.

Groot wipes his hands clean again, looks at him consideringly, and then grows another mixture of red berries and flowers, crushes them, and runs his fingers thoroughly through Peter's hair.

Then he reaches for the mirror leaning up against the stool with the seeds on it, and holds it up so Peter can look at himself.

Peter blinks, and an alien prince blinks back at him.

Drax watches him with quiet, intense curiosity.

Groot beams. “I am Groot.”

“You look like a fruitcake.” Rocket grins nastily at him. “Apparently you gotta keep your hands off that shit for fifteen minutes and then it'll set.”

“I am Groot!”

“Groot'll get it off you once the job's done.”

* * *

 

Kellet stares at the approaching guest shuttle with something approaching despair, Brandt's news about the big guests echoing in xyr head. Xe _hates_ royalty. Newlyweds are annoying but can be tolerated, rich people are _always_ frustating but _predictable,_ but _royals_ act like the galaxy owes them _everything._ And these are _rich, royal newlyweds._ It's the worst of all worlds. The receptionist is probably going to be miserable in a couple of minutes.

Kellet just straightens xyr uniform cap, brushes a couple of stray tendrils out of xyr uppermost set of eyes, and waits for the storm.

The shuttle lands, a frantically bowing chauffeur opens the door, and the royal couple steps down and walks into the lobby.

“Welcome to Plava Laguna Resort,” the receptionist says in a sweet purr, giving them a green-toothed smile. “What can I help you with today?”

“Reservation,” the red-haired one snaps. “Stardust. Where's a bellhop, our bags ought to have been taken up _immediately._ ”

 _Tap, tap—_ “ _Welcome,_ your highness! And congratulations on your newly wedded bliss!” Shra is one of the best receptionists at Plava Laguna; she can sound thrilled about _anything._ “Kellett, with them. You'll be staying in the—”

“I _know_ where I'm staying, my reservation was _very specific._ I'm going to _require—_ ”

As the princeling begins to reel off demands, Kellett steps forward quietly and gets his spouse's attention. “May I take your bags?”

The lucky (unlucky?) consort blinks at her, unsmiling. “Yes.”

Xe takes the two bags, surprised at how relatively small they are. “Will there be more arriving later?” Most royals travel with a whole _armada_ of luggage.

“No. I prefer to travel light.” The consort inclines his head toward his husband. “And he can be persuaded.”

Shra is actually starting to look frazzled, typing rapidly as the princeling continues listing his requirements. Kellett says, hoping it won't offend, “He seems like quite a handful.”

“He is frequently very stupid,” the consort says gravely. “I often need to protect him from himself.”

* * *

 

The security auditor arrives with her head held high, smart in her pressed uniform, her expression cold, and is ushered inside in a cloud of worried murmurs. The head of staff greets her quietly, calmly, and invites her into the office so they can discuss the audit, with orders to the kitchen to bring them tea in half an hour.

As soon as the office door closes behind them, though, Gamora throws her arms around the other woman and grins. “Brandt, it's been _way_ too long since I got to see you.”

Brandt beams, allowing herself to be lifted off her feet. “This one has missed you, glorious warrior.”

They kiss at some length.

When they're done kissing, Gamora murmurs, “So I spotted two of my idiots in uniform back there.”

“Yes. They're...interesting.”

“That's one way to put it. Did the other two get here ok?”

“The prince of the Spartax and his consort arrived two hours ago, and have already put considerable strain on the patience of this one's employees.” Brandt looks both amused and irritated. “The prince himself is tolerably pretty. Are they actually married?”

* * *

 

Having thrown one extensive tantrum in the lobby and another one on the way to the room, hurling himself onto the honeymoon suite's single massive bed and just _relaxing_ is the best thing Peter thinks he's felt all day. His coat is flung over a chair, the bags are in the corner where the nine-eyed bellhop left them, and the ridiculous high-heeled boots Gamora got for him are shoved over to one side, just waiting to torture him again. But not right now.

He sinks slowly into the red comforter, luxuriating in the feeling of a mattress that's more than three feet wide, and considers taking a year-long nap.

Faintly he hears a double thump, probably Drax taking off his own boots, and then the mattress dips _very_ slightly—the bed is big enough that you can have two people in it who _aren't_ in each other's way all the time! It's a miracle! It's the best miracle _ever._

He feels a brush against his thigh and ignores it, figuring Drax could probably use a nap too. And then another brush against his...stomach?

And now there's a definite mouth on his.

As in, it is both _definitely_ a mouth, and a very large and _definite_ mouth.

Peter's eyes pop open, and he says, “Drax, why are you kissing me?”

Drax looks down at him in puzzlement. “We are married for the duration of this mission.”

“Yes. We're _pretending_ to be married.” Peter shifts nervously. “That doesn't mean we have to act like it _all the time._ Like. Like, we don't have to act like we're married when we're in _private._ ”

“Hotel staff could arrive at any moment.”

“No, they couldn't, I turned on that do-not-disturb thing, they won't even _knock._ ”

Drax's brow wrinkles. “So we are only married where others can see us?”

“Yes. _Exactly._ ”

“That was not clear.” Does he look disappointed? Peter hopes, _desperately,_ that he's not seeing Drax look _disappointed_ just now, because he doesn't want to think about what that might imply. “As you wish, though.” He moves away, settles back against the headboard, and closes his eyes. “I will rest before dinner.”

“Yeah, same.” Peter shuts his eyes again.

As he starts to drift, a weird quiet part of his brain says, _what if I_ _ **did**_ _let Drax kiss me? I wonder if he's a good NOPE. NOPE NOPE NOPE._ _NOT GOING THERE. NOPE._

* * *

 

They spot Rocket and Groot briefly at dinner (where Peter complains loudly about whatever pops into his head at the moment). Rocket's making circuits around the room with a platter, offering guests a complimentary snort of some euphoric or other. He looks disgusted, doubly so because of how cute everyone seems to think he is. Groot is happily growing flower arrangements for the tables, to the delight of several diners.

They and Gamora are apparently doing their secondary jobs _very_ well—the other diners look over at Peter and Drax _constantly_ and whisper to each other.

“I hear his 'empire' is only _one planet,_ but they're so _incredibly_ wealthy that they can call themselves whatever they _want._ ”

“I hear he has _five other consorts,_ but _this_ one is the only one that got a _honeymoon._ ”

“I hear he's a compulsive thief, but the law can't touch him because his father will declare war.”

Gamora catches them briefly in the corridor when they're heading back to the room, but all she says is, “Good work so far. With you two around, they barely even notice I'm here.”

* * *

 

Climbing into bed that evening is a little weird, because Drax is sliding under the covers on the other side. Drax doesn't treat it like anything strange, though—probably because he's been in prison a lot, sleeping much closer to men he trusted much less than he trusts Peter.

It's a little weird that he sleeps naked? But that's probably just because it's how he _always_ sleeps (they all know Drax sleeps naked, it's the kind of thing you find out when you have to suddenly race through a minefield and wake him up), and he's not treating this like it's any different from any other night.

The bed is more than big enough for both of them to have their own space, anyway.

Peter falls asleep and dreams of different beds.

He dreams about his _first_ bed, from when he was young, the one with the Star Wars sheets and the left knob broken off from the footboard and the lightning bolt that he carved on the post with a pocket knife. He dreams of his mother's hospital bed. He dreams of kneeling on his tiny bunk on the Ravager ship, staring out his little porthole at the expanse of stars, thrilled to be _in space_ but terrified of the emptiness of it, of the monsters on every side of him, miserable because his mother is _dead_ and he's _never going to be able to go home..._

He wakes up with a start, his skin beaded with sweat, and he's spread across more than half of the bed. Normally the nightmares don't get as bad as all that, or they haven't in years, but since holding the Gem they've been coming back more and more.

A massive arm wraps around his waist and pulls him close, so that he's being held against Drax's chest and can't flail.

“Sleep, Quill.” Drax rests his chin on the top of Peter's head and starts to hum deep in his chest.

Peter falls back asleep and doesn't dream.

* * *

 

He wakes up to a light knocking on the door and a cheery trill of, “Room service!”

Drax rolls away from him and says, not opening his eyes, “I am extremely comfortable and will not get up.”

Groaning, Peter gets out of the bed, reaches for a shirt, and then remembers that he's supposed to be a bratty, self-centered alien prince. So instead, he glances quickly in the mirror, runs his hands through his hair to make it look just a bit _more_ mussed, stalks over to the door, and says, _“What?”_ even as he's opening it.

The girl in the hall blinks, startled, and then says with clearly practiced cheer, “You requested breakfast, your highness!” Her eyes flicker briefly over his bare chest and stomach in a way that's more than a little flattering. “May I bring it in?”

He glares at her for a moment with all the childish effrontery he can manage before saying, “Yes, all _right,_ bring it in.”

After she's wheeled the creaking room service cart into the room, she curtsies and trots out again.

Peter puts his ear to the door.

In the hall he can hear her whispering to a maid, “Did you _see_ him?”

“I _did._ ”

They giggle.

“Why can't we have royalty _every_ day? It almost makes up for the audit!”

* * *

 

Drax is an _amazing_ liar.

Mainly this is because he never says _anything_ that's not true.

He just sort of says true things out of order.

* * *

 

At mid-day they go to lunch in one of the resort's more ridiculous restaurants, a carefully insulated bubble perched on top of a live volcano. The floor is transparent, allowing diners to watch lava bubble beneath their feet in perfect safety as they eat exquisite food prepared by some of the finest cooks in known space.

Peter and Drax are halfway through bowls of a particularly delicious hot soup, laced throughout with a kind of live worm so expensive that Peter would previously have never even dreamed of getting to eat _one,_ when Gamora materializes behind the bar. She spends a few minutes deep in conversation with the bartender, and then catches Peter's eye.

He stares at her.

She winks, and then mouths, _“Be distracting.”_ And then her eyes go wide as she notices something else, and she follows up with, _“HURRY.”_

Peter tips his plate of grated Arcturan mega-donkey off the table—into the path of an oncoming server—and throws a fit.

* * *

 

While Peter's shouting at the maitre d', one of the other diners leans over and gets Drax's attention. “He's quite something, isn't he?”

Drax considers it and then nods. “Yes.”

“You seem like a reasonable man, how did you end up with a brat like _him?_ ” The other man's gaze is all rehearsed innocence.

“I was in prison.” Drax watches Peter gesture extravagantly. “Without him I would still be there.”

The other man stares at him, startled, and goes abruptly back to his meal.

A couple of minutes later, Gamora comes into view again and mouths to Drax, _“Done. He can calm down now._ ” Drax, however, looks up at Peter and sees that his momentum is now too great for this tantrum to be stopped naturally.

A moment's consideration, and he grabs Peter by the elbow, hauls him down, and says in a tone that's intimate for him (and thus still somewhat audible to the rest of the restaurant), “If you do not stop acting like a child I will spank you.”

Peter blinks rapidly, his cheeks flush pink, and he says, “O-ok,” and sits back down with a bump and stares into his soup.

Drax looks up at the crowd of shocked resort employees and says, very sincerely, “I apologize. He does not mean it personally.”

* * *

 

Peter sucks down the last worm and makes conversation that he can barely hear over the inexplicable roaring in his own ears. He's uncomfortable and he doesn't know why. He can't sit still. Drax is talking about something, some place he once visited, and it's not even registering.

It probably doesn't even _occur_ to Drax that what he'd said could be taken in a sexual context.

That it could be...not punishment.

The weird, stupid part of Peter's brain from yesterday whispers, _what if,_ and Peter _does_ wonder, what _would_ it be like? So the weird brain brings up an image of Drax dragging Peter across his lap, yanking down his pants, and spanking his bare ass until he's writhing and moaning and begging. Running his massive fingers over the sore, sensitive skin, striking again until it turns into a caress and then tugging Peter's thighs apart and reaching between his legs and—

NOPE.

Peter jolts back to reality, stands up _very_ suddenly, and says, “I have a headache. I'm going back to the room to lie down. See you later!”

* * *

 

Peter tries to make it _look_ like he's storming through the resort halls in a huff and hopes it _doesn't_ look like he's having difficulty walking with an erection. As soon as he gets to the suite, though, he locks the door, turns on the do-not-disturb whatsit, and flings himself onto the bed. The comforter and soft mattress accept him without question.

Drax!

Drax?

_Drax._

It's _weird,_ and he's _so_ hard, and Drax is the _last_ person he'd _ever_ thought he'd have this reaction to. (Well, maybe not the _last,_ but Rocket and Groot don't count, they're too weird to even _consider_ fucking.)

He settles himself back against the pillows. Tugs down his pants. Grabs his dick.

Thinks about girls, and _not about Drax._

Like Bereet. Bereet laughs every time she comes, and her tits smell like flowers, and she has a triply-redundant respiratory system, so she can give head without coming up for air even _once._ He sent her flowers and sweets, apologized fifty different ways for being such a terrible jerk to her, and finally she'd slapped him five or six times and then smiled and said it was ok, he was mostly forgiven, because she has an arranged marriage she's been putting off for years anyway.

Or Lara-Ko, the Kree chick he'd had a fling with when she was on a month-long shore leave between deployments. Lara-Ko had handcuffed him to her bed and then ridden his face until she'd come twice and he was gasping. After they'd fucked he hadn't been able to sit up for two hours, and she'd laughed at him.

Ravendri, the Shi'ar, who'd stuck her tongue in his ass—more fun than he'd ever expected, he still remembers how surprised he'd been at how _good_ it felt. She'd joked about sharing him with her sister, the one she ran her store with, and she liked to have sex in the morning, liked to open the curtains and have him fuck her from behind while she basked in the sunlight and let the light shine on her hair.

Or _Gamora._

He and Gamora have only ever had sex twice—and she's been pretty clear on it not happening again, says he isn't exciting in the right way for her.

The second time they _did_ have sex, though, she let him eat her out. _Let._ Like it was a weird thing to suggest and not his _favorite thing to do._

 _That's_ one hell of a memory. Her pubic hair is thick and curly, shot with purple-red, and the lips of her cunt are purple too. And she tastes good, _sharp_ and tangy and _spicy,_ and she'd grabbed his hair with both hands to hold him there when he'd started licking at the little diamond of her clit, her thighs like iron bars on either side of his face. He'd gotten his tongue in her, had traced the ridges of her inner walls for a moment before moving back to the outside.

She'd clenched around his finger at the height of orgasm, so hard he'd worried about breaking a bone. His face had smelled like her for three days.

He strokes himself, hand full of lotion from the nightstand, and thinks about going down on Gamora and how she grins when she's having a good time. He thinks about her grabbing his hair, because the way she grips is amazing and her fingers feel good on his scalp, pulling his hair while he's on top of her so she can still control the pace completely. Gamora isn't Drax, she smiles in a different way, her laugh is quiet, she makes jokes and _understands_ jokes and pushes him around. And she's...she's not a foot and a half taller than him. Not two feet broader, when she smiles it's not a surprise like a lightning flash—

Dammit, he's thinking about Drax again. He's back to thinking about being bent over Drax's lap with one of those huge hands between his _legs..._

He comes with his face pressed into the pillow, feeling confused and embarrassed despite the fact that no one is watching him.

“Quill.”

 _“Drax!”_ His voice cracks. It hasn't done that in years. “When did you get here?”

“Only a moment ago.” Drax frowns at him. “You are sweating. Are you sick?”

“No, I'm...I'm fine.”

“You are sure?”

“Oh, _bite_ me.”

“Why?”

“...it's an expression.”

“It is strange.”

“Yeah, I...I guess it is. Look, can you go and sit down in the other room or something? I need to change.”

* * *

 

Peter avoids Drax's eyes for the rest of the day, and is in general much less of a pain in the ass. And apparently he's been doing his job well, because he's thrown so many tantrums at this point that him being _quiet_ is just as weird and distracting to the staff and the other resort-goers as being loud. Apparently noisy rich brats never get tired? So now everyone's watching them and whispering about them having gotten in a fight, or about how Peter's hypothetical emperor father is going to show up and drag him home, or how his “consort” is really just blackmailing him for money and power. Watching the changing flow of rumors is astonishing.

They get through dinner without him throwing a fit, which he tries to deflect attention from by talking loudly about how the “terrible” food has upset his stomach badly, and they go to a play (which is actually very funny, but Peter's not paying attention). Sometimes they spot Gamora. She winks at Peter at one point—apparently things are going well?

They _better_ be, because Peter's feeling weirder and _weirder_ about this. He feels weirder every time he has to sit cuddled up close to Drax's side, or kiss him on the cheek, or talk about how they're _married._ Or “married.” He has to keep thinking with the quotation marks, it's somehow very important, but he's having an increasingly hard time remembering why.

Drax is...good company. He talks, but he doesn't babble. He has a lot of interesting stories. As long as Peter stays away from jokes and sarcasm—which is admittedly pretty tough—the conversation flows easily.

Somehow this leads to Drax wanting to snuggle when they finally get to bed?

Peter rolls away startled when he feels Drax's hand on his back. “Whoa, man, what?”

“You are a restless sleeper.” Drax's red markings glow faintly in the dim light. “If I hold you, you will not kick me.”

“Shit, did I kick you last night? I'm sorry.”

“You did not, but it was only luck. My wife was once the same. She could never be calm.”

Peter freezes in the middle of leaning against Drax's chest. “I'm not your wife, though.”

“You are yourself,” Drax says agreeably, wrapping an arm around his waist, “and she was herself. You are not otherwise similar.”

“Ok...”

Drax's chin settles onto the top of his head. “Go to sleep, Quill.”

* * *

 

In the end everything basically happens because of the pool.

Swimming's a luxury in most parts of the galaxy, but the Plava Laguna Resort has _ten pools._ Some of them aren't fit for carbon-based hominids—too hot, too cold, filled with acid or sulfur or snapping fish or mercury—but there's one that looks like the backyard of a Beverley Hills mansion. Granted, the sky's purple, and the clouds are pink, so it's a little bit Barbie Dream House, but Peter doesn't mind. He _does_ mind that his swimsuit, also picked out by Gamora like the rest of his clothes for the mission, is _very_ small. (Drax had to be talked into wearing one at all, and was only successfully convinced by the reminder that they wanted to get attention from _guests,_ not _law enforcement._ )

Peter _is_ pleased to hear the whispering taking on an again _different_ tone as he swims slow circuits of the massive pool. If he were here under different circumstances, it seems like he'd have a decent chance of some friendly company. Drax, sunning himself in a chaise longue nearby, is subject to some lascivious interest as well.

It would be funny if Peter were willing to think about it.

He dives, kicks along under the water, makes eyes at a grinning Czarnian in a miniscule bikini, and almost gets a lungful of water laughing at her _very_ explicit gesture. She pounds him on the back (a little too hard) when he surfaces coughing, then murmurs in his ear, “Is your consort as strong as he looks?”

Peter glances over at Drax, who waves to him, and then replies, “Stronger.”

“Then why don't you both come by _my_ room later, little prince?” She wiggles her eyebrows, trails her finger down his chest. “I think I'd like to learn more about you _both._ ”

“Well, how do we find you?” People are watching them. It's fun.

“Ask for Giyena's room. The staff knows me.” She chuckles. “I think I could have a good time with you two. Mm, and it looks like your consort's meeting new people too.”

“Is he?” Peter looks over at Drax again—and sees Gamora bent over next to him, whispering in his ear.

_Shit._

“I need to go.” He tries to sound angry.

Giyena's laughing. “Old rival?”

“My backstabbing cousin.” He's already swimming away.

Gamora's gone by the time he climbs out of the water. He frowns, says softly to Drax, “What did she want?”

“We are ready. She needs a distraction.”

“Shit. Distraction, distraction—”

Drax grabs his wrist.

Around the pool heads rise in anticipation of another show.

“Ok, what _are_ you—”

Drax tugs, and Peter's in the _act_ of losing his balance when hands wrap around his hips and pull him forward. So now—

Now he's sitting on Drax's lap. His legs are spread, his knees on the edges of the chair on either side of Drax's enormous thighs. He has to grab Drax's shoulders for balance, and Drax says, _very_ audibly, “I do not like you flirting with all these women,” and kisses him.

Through the sudden fuzz in his ears, Peter can hear Giyena howling with laughter. He says, petulantly, “You can't tell me what to do.”

“You are incorrect.” Drax kisses him again.

Were Peter's ears feeling fuzzy? Now they're roaring. Drax's lips are surprisingly soft. “I didn't marry you so you could boss me around.”

“Then you should not have done so.”

The crowd around the pool bursts into a chorus of murmurs.

“You can't _talk_ to me like that.” _Peter_ kisses _him._

Drax catches his lower lip, grip tight to pull him even closer. When they come up for air, he says, _very_ softly, “Gamora will need access to our suite. I think they are sufficiently distracted.”

Peter blinks dizzily. “Lead the way.”

He's been picked up before. Sometimes even by people he was about to have sex with. But Drax rises out of the chair like a mountain, taking Peter with him, and by the time Peter is draped over his shoulder and they're heading back to the suite, he's feeling _very picked up._

Giyena starts applauding as they leave, still laughing uproariously.

* * *

 

Gamora's waiting in an alcove near the suite, and she barely even glances at them before disappearing into the suite's bathroom. Just before she shuts the door behind her, she says, “Do something noisy. This might get loud.”

Drax puts Peter down on top of a vanity table. “What should we—”

Their faces are almost on a level right now, so Peter just kisses him.

His shoulders are pressed back against the mirror almost immediately, cold glass against his skin, and Drax's hands slide down from his shoulders to his chest, his stomach, his waist, to the band of his (really small and now _very tight_ ) swimsuit. Then Drax pulls away for a moment and says, gravely, “Yes?”

Peter nods so hard that he worries briefly about breaking his neck. “Yes.”

He's already started to split a seam, the size is a little off, so Drax just rips it off and drops the shreds on the floor. “You flirt too much. It is unbecoming of a married man.”

“We're not actually...” It's hard to...it's hard to words like this, because he's got Drax standing between his knees and his _dick_ is pressing against Drax's stomach. And Drax is kissing him again. It's very... _very._

“For the duration of the job.'

“I—are you _smiling?_ You know _damn_ well that's—”

More kissing.

“I _hate_ you.”

“That is untrue.”

Resort security guards burst in just as Drax is getting rid of his own swimsuit. Peter and Drax ignore them, and the guards themselves freeze, cough awkwardly, and let themselves out in a flurry of apologies.

Naked Drax leads to the question of, “Um, you don't seem to have a...have any...”

Drax glances down at himself, at the spot where he seems to have two sort of _lumps_ but _no dick._ “They remain inside me when not in use.”

Peter blinks and takes a moment to prcess that. “They...?” His mouth is dry.

“Do you not also have two?”

“Uh.” He swallows hard. “No...? I—you don't use both at the same _time,_ do you?”

“That would be impractical.”

“What do you—” Peter looks down again, and his eyes go wide. “ _Oh._ Yeah, I...I'm not sure I can even fit _one_ of those.”

Drax grins suddenly at him. “We will manage.”

“You know, I'm willing to give it a shot.”

* * *

 

Rocket, Groot, and Brandt get to the suite already pulling their guns out. Brandt's skeleton key lets them in, and they all burst through the door—

And skid to a stop.

After a moment Brandt looks away, antennae quivering, one hand over her mouth to hide her giggles. Peter and Drax don't seem to notice.

Groot blinks, then looks down at Rocket. “I am Groot.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Rocket scowls and digs twenty credits out of his pocket, handing them to Groot. “You don't hafta gloat every time you win a bet.”

 


End file.
